


A Lesson on Rudeness

by HipHopAnonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Mirrors, Over the Knee, Paddling, Punishment, Schmoop, Spanking, Therapy Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's most recent treatment of Molly has pushed John's tolerance for the detective's rudeness over the edge. He decides that enough is enough, and is determined to teach Sherlock a lesson with the hairbrush. Spanking play is old hat for the two of them, but this is something different ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stormed into the flat, slamming the door behind him. The door would have crashed directly in John’s face had he been a bit taller and therefore more able to keep up with the detective’s longer strides; or if he hadn’t taken the time to tip the cabbie extra. The generous tip helped assuage his guilt over the fact that he and Sherlock had shouted at each other for practically the entire ride. John gazed up the stairs at the closed door, grinding his teeth in annoyance at Sherlock’s tantrum.

Mrs. Hudson peeked out from behind her own door. Sherlock had clearly stomped and slammed enough to alert their landlady of the commotion. At least she hadn’t been able to hear them shouting in the cab.

“John?” she asked, worry evident in her voice. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson,” John assured her. “Just Sherlock being a right old git … again. No manners at all. Selfish, rude, little … git.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Poor Sherlock. He does …” she waved her hand in the air vaguely, “… get like that sometimes.”

John snorted. “Sometimes, yes. More often than not, actually.” He balled his fists tightly at his sides in frustration, looking up the stairs again. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, and then added, almost to himself, “it will be handled.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Oh, I bet. Now, I don’t know what happened, but he sure does seem to be asking for a hiding, doesn’t he?”

John turned to her, his eyes wide. “I – um … er … well, I suppose …” his face flushed. “You’ve … heard, then?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, dear.” She winked at him. “I’ll leave you to it!” And with that, she slipped back into her flat.

Well, that was surely something. Foregoing complete privacy was simply a hazard of close quarters with neighbors – thin walls and all. John sighed and shrugged. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t seemed scandalized in the least, so … he pushed aside any embarrassment and let his anger bubble back up to the front of his mind.

John was furious with Sherlock. He couldn’t believe the things that Sherlock had said to Molly that afternoon – and after the poor woman had gone out of her way to help them. She was always going out of her way to help Sherlock. Even though she had had the day off, she’d answered Sherlock’s call and come in. She really did not need Sherlock’s “brilliant” commentary on her attire, the state of her hair, or the bags under her eyes. _Especially_ not in relation to her current boyfriend troubles. John’s heart broke for her when she quickly brushed away the tears welling in her eyes before excusing herself; presumably to go have a proper cry in the loo.

Of course, Sherlock had noticed, but his lack of concern had just made John’s anger increase. He kept trying to explain why Sherlock’s comments were inappropriate, rude, and unnecessary, and no it did not matter that Molly had asked Sherlock for advice on the matter once before – there was simply a polite way to behave and then there was the Sherlock way. By the time the cab had pulled onto Baker Street, the two were yelling at each other, and John’s blood was boiling.

John felt like he had discussed Sherlock’s rudeness with the stubborn detective a million times; sometimes with calm patience, occasionally with shouting, and even a few times with desperate pleading. Sherlock did seem to be making progress, but with Sherlock it was often one step forward and two steps back. There _was_ one method of “discussion” John hadn’t used yet. Mrs. Hudson truly was a wise woman, it seemed.

Although Mrs. Hudson had apparently overheard spankings before, what she had heard had always been limited to play in John and Sherlock’s relationship. Even when John would lecture Sherlock like a naughty child, telling him he was being punished, there was a bit of fun pretend to the whole thing. The times that John had grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and popped him on the bottom in true annoyance, to actually punish, were far and few between. Sherlock always looked so shocked and scandalized that John had just left such chastisement to a few sharp swats before permitting Sherlock to wriggle away with an indignant and pouty eye roll.

Well, perhaps it was time for John to get serious. He steeled himself as he slowly climbed the stairs, and then took a deep breath before opening the door to the flat.

He was greeted by a volley of loud bangs and clatters coming from the kitchen. He walked slowly around the corner and saw Sherlock fling open a cabinet, wrench a bowl from the stack, and set it down with a hard clang on the counter. The detective then jerked the refrigerator open, and pulled out a leftover pudding and plopped it into the bowl, tossing the plastic container into the sink. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer, slamming it closed. He picked the bowl up and turned around, leaning against the counter, and began to shovel the dessert into his mouth, scowling at John when he noticed he was being watched.

John rolled his eyes. _What a child._

“Sherlock …” John began, not entirely sure how he was going to broach the subject of discipline.

Fortunately, John ended up not needing a plan, because Sherlock cut him off with a snarl, “Oh, _do_ shut up, John. I have every intention of enjoying this snack in peace, and I’ve had quite enough of your idiotic opinions on the Molly subject, thank you very much!” He shoved another spoonful of pudding into his mouth and glared at John.

That did it. Some instinct took over John – be it military or paternal – and he marched straight up to Sherlock and yanked the bowl from his hands, tossing it hard into the sink where it landed with a thunderous crash.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He gaped at John, shocked into silence for once.

“Now you listen, and you listen good, Sherlock,” John began, his voice getting progressively louder as he lectured. “I don’t care what you think or what excuses or reasoning or _deductions_ you may want to give me – you keep quiet and listen. You were extremely rude and cruel to Molly today. And it wasn’t just today. You are rude to her more often than not, and I’ve had enough. You are _going_ to learn to think before you speak. I don’t give a damn how smart you are. Some things are better left unsaid, and you’re certainly smart enough to figure that out, Sherlock!”

The detective huffed and crossed his arms, recovering a bit from the initial shock John had given him.

“You’d better watch the attitude, young man, because you’ve already earned yourself a _very_ hard paddling.” And there it was. “Paddling” was the word John reserved for referring to the hairbrush – the large, round, wood-back hairbrush that John knew stung just a bit too much for Sherlock to really enjoy.

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink. “You _can’t_ be serious, John,” he scoffed, giving John a big, dramatic eye roll.

“Oh, but I am. This has been a long time coming, Sherlock.” John said, quieter now, but firm.

“And what if I say no?” Sherlock gave him a mutinous glare, proving even more to John that the detective deserved what he had coming.

John narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “You have a safeword if you really need it.”

Without further hesitation, John grabbed Sherlock by the ear and tugged, forcing the taller man to bend and stoop down to John’s height.

“Ow! Owww! John!”

“Hush!”

John dragged Sherlock by the ear from the kitchen and into the living room, the detective complaining with little _ouches_ the entire way. John deposited Sherlock in the corner, something he’d only done a couple of times before, but always in play. Sherlock whipped his hand up to rub at his smarting ear when John released his hold on it.

“John, ow! That really hurt!” his face was contorted in distress, still quite stunned by John’s actions.

“Yes, well, not as much as your arse is going to in a little bit,” John said. “Now, face the corner.”

“John, really. Isn’t this a bit … " _much? Absurd? Embarrassing?_ John didn’t wait for Sherlock to find the complaint he was searching for.

“Face the corner this instant!” John barked in the military tone that never failed to snap Sherlock into obedience, and, true to form, Sherlock obeyed.

John reached around to Sherlock’s front and made quick work of unfastening his trousers. With a couple quick tugs, John had both slacks and pants bunched down around the naughty detective's ankles. He chose to ignore the little tsks and sighs of protest, thankful that his flatmate had decided to be reasonably cooperative for the moment. John grasped the back of Sherlock’s shirt, lifting it well out of the way of his now bared bottom. Rapidly, he applied six sharp swats to Sherlock’s behind, three for each cheek – just enough to slightly pinken the skin and give the man something to think about before the real fireworks began.

“Ow! Ow!” Sherlock gasped, undoubtedly more in surprise at John’s harshness than in any real pain.

John ignored him. “Now, you stand there until I tell you otherwise. No moving, no squirming, and no touching or rubbing your bottom. You let that little bit of sting sink in, and think about how it’s going to feel like nothing by the time I’m through with you. Sherlock, if you move, I swear you’ll wish you hadn’t.” John was growling out the words through gritted teeth.

John stepped back and waited. Sherlock stayed still, his hands balled into fists by his sides. He noticed that Sherlock’s chest was rising and falling quickly with heavy breaths. He slowly clenched and unclenched his bottom, now decorated with the light pink blotches from the preliminary spanks. John stepped to the side and took a peek at Sherlock’s front, and, not surprisingly, the detective’s cock had begun to harden.

It seemed that even in the middle of a row, a bit of embarrassing chastisement from John still worked to rile the detective up. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be grinding his teeth in concentration. He was clearly at war with himself, not wanting to give in to the arousal in the midst of his fury and indignation. John smirked. He figured a good dose of the hairbrush might at least temporarily cure Sherlock of his unwanted erection.

John watched Sherlock like a hawk for several minutes, all the while trying to calm himself down. He didn’t want to be out of control with anger if he was going to do this. Finally, the fury that had been ready to boil over seemed to simmer, and he was able to focus only on grim determination to teach Sherlock Holmes a lesson he would not soon forget.

“Sherlock, you stay put. I’ll be right back.” And with that, John went to fetch the hairbrush.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Sherlock heard John leave the room, he wrenched his pants and trousers back up with a huff. _Damn him anyway._ John was being absurd. Did he really think Sherlock was going to submit to actual honest to goodness discipline? _Ridiculous._ Sherlock ground his teeth. _Idiot._ He was an adult. Not to mention that John was overreacting over the Molly incident – if it could even be called an incident. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that Molly had repeatedly asked him for relationship advice, and Sherlock had finally decided to give in and offer it. What did John want him to do – lie? _Absurd._ John was simply wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong._

He fastened his slacks and stormed from the corner to his chair and sat down hard, crossing his arms and pursing his lips with an expression that just dared John to do something about it. He tried to ignore the warmness in his bottom from John’s spanks and the gentle throb from the resulting erection. _Damn him._ John really wasn’t being fair. Did he expect Sherlock to give in to a disciplinary spanking simply because it turned him on? _How dare he._ It was _stupid._ Sherlock was a grown man - the only consulting detective in the world. Still, a part of Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure if the heat radiating through his body came from anger or arousal. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing more slowly and willing away his unwanted hard-on.

His heart, which had only just slowed to a more reasonable pace, renewed its nervous flutter when he heard John tromping loudly down the stairs. He swallowed with some difficulty before fixing a scowl on his face.

John came through the doorway, hairbrush in hand, and immediately froze. He narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath, grimacing in annoyance.

“Sherlock?” his voice was low, seemingly calm, but with a dangerous edge. He pointed the hairbrush at Sherlock and then at the corner where the detective was supposed to be. “Why aren’t you in the corner?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not playing, John,” he snorted flippantly, but inside his heart threatened to pound out of his chest. Sherlock felt both anger and fear as he watched John stalk slowly towards him. “This is absurd, John, absolutely absurd. I will not allow you to subject me to something so ridiculous just so you can get your jollies off or get some kind of rise out of me. My interactions with Molly were perfectly reasonable! You just don’t understand –” His voice rose in pitch as he spoke, and the words were coming out far too quickly. He could tell he was babbling, but somehow couldn’t make himself stop. His face felt hot – he was surely blushing red. _Humiliating. So dull._

He instinctively shrank into the chair as John towered threateningly over him. Their respective positions reversed the usual height dynamic between the two, and it threw Sherlock just a touch off balance. He began to regret sitting down prior to facing John’s wrath. “John, really!” He balled his fists and brought them down hard on the arms of the chair in a fit of temper.

John let out a humorless chuckle. “Your little tantrum is just proving to me that you deserve this spanking, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sprung out of the chair, looking down at the shorter man in an attempt to use his height to turn the tables, but John was ready for him. Before Sherlock could react, John quickly grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled, forcing him to bend in half. Sherlock put up a good struggle, but John’s military training won out, and with nothing more than a quick scuffle ended by a sharp elbow to the detective’s back, John had Sherlock lying face down on the rug with his arms pinned behind him.

Sherlock squirmed, but John held him down by simply sitting atop his back, straddling the detective’s thin frame. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John had the foresight to straddle his body facing his backside, knees on either side of Sherlock’s upper arms with one hand pinning his wrists in the small of his back. The other hand presumably still held the dreaded hairbrush. Any doubts Sherlock may have had regarding John’s intention or ability to follow through on his threat of a “very hard paddling” were quashed when he felt the hairbrush come down sharply against his arse.

John smacked Sherlock’s bottom with the brush once – twice – three times – in rapid succession, each strike making a dull, muffled sound as the wooden implement made contact with his trouser-clad behind. Sherlock was momentarily shocked into stillness, his legs and buttocks stiffening at the surprisingly painful blows. His trousers were not offering nearly as much protection from the wicked sting of the hairbrush as he would have expected. He winced as John smacked him again.

“Ready to cooperate yet, Sherlock?”

“Get. Off!” Sherlock growled back.

WHAP! The hairbrush came down low against the curve underneath his buttocks. Sherlock twisted and jerked beneath John’s weight. He even gave his legs a few futile kicks, but it was no good. He was trapped with his bottom completely vulnerable and perfectly positioned for John to continue spanking with that damned hairbrush.

“Stop this, John! Right this instant!” Sherlock snarled, trying to ignore the blood rushing to his face and between his legs. _Damn him, really and truly, damn him._

WHAP! WHAP! Sherlock bucked as John targeted the backs of his thighs. John was spanking _hard_. He clearly had every intention of making up for the clothed state of Sherlock’s backside.

“You have three options, Sherlock,” John began. “ _One,_ ” he whacked Sherlock’s bottom for emphasis, “you say ‘yes, sir’ which means you agree to take your spanking for being such a rude, insufferable little prat. I will let you up, you will pull your trousers and pants down to your knees, and I will take you across my lap where I will paddle your bare bottom with this hairbrush until I decide you’ve been sufficiently punished.

_Two,_ ” another whack with the brush, “you continue to be stubborn and I will continue to blister your bum just like this until you are ready to cooperate and _then_ I will take you over my knee for your real spanking.

Or three,” Sherlock winced in expectation of another smack, but none came. Instead, John spoke more quietly, with just a hint of the warmth, kindness and understanding that Sherlock was used to, “Three – you use your safeword and I’ll stop.”

Sherlock’s heart gave a little twist and for a brief moment, he felt a twinge of sadness. For some reason, he knew he wouldn’t be using his safeword that evening, though he couldn’t fathom why not. It was odd, as he had never been hesitant to safeword out before. He refused to dwell on what felt dangerously like sentiment, and almost immediately, his stubbornness returned and he pressed his lips together and ground his teeth, huffing loudly through his nose.

“Very well, then,” John muttered, almost to himself.

Without further comment, John put the hairbrush to good, or, in Sherlock's opinion, terrible use. He wielded the brush with great expertise, bringing it down again and again at a fast, punishing pace. It wasn’t long before the sting in Sherlock’s bottom had built up to a nearly unbearable level. It _hurt_. Far more than a typical spanking. John was really putting his shoulder into it, peppering every inch of Sherlock’s unfortunate behind with vigorous swats. John lit into him like that for what felt like an eternity, with Sherlock gritting his teeth in stubborn silence and desperately wriggling to no avail. However, when the spanks trailed down – just as hard and relentless – to the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, his stubbornness finally broke. He let out a broken, stuttering whimper just before beginning to beg.

“J-John, please!”

John paused, “You ready to take your paddling like a good boy now?”

Sherlock whined, feeling embarrassed and defeated. “Yes -” he sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” John murmured, setting the hairbrush aside for the moment and giving Sherlock’s tingling bottom a quick rub through his trousers.

Despite everything, Sherlock’s heart gave a little leap at the praise. John released his grip on Sherlock’s wrists and stood up slowly, as if he half expected the need to stop Sherlock from attempting to escape. Once John had stepped aside, the detective shakily pushed himself up. John took him by the elbow to help steady him as he stood, and then lead him to the sofa where John sat down and gave Sherlock an expectant look.

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he weren’t still half hard, and reluctantly unfastened his trousers. In one swift motion, he pushed both trousers and pants down past his knees, baring his already sore bottom. He stood awkwardly, eyes closed in embarrassment, for a brief moment until he felt John’s hand gently close over his own and tug him forward. Sherlock permitted the doctor to gently, but firmly guide him across his knees. With grim resolve, the detective settled in for what was sure to be a miserable experience.


	3. Chapter 3

John carefully guided Sherlock across his lap. Now that Sherlock was finally being compliant, John took his time, adjusting the detective’s slender body to assure that his hips were perched perfectly over John’s leg with his naughty bare bottom upturned and ready for the hairbrush.

Once fully satisfied with the positioning, John permitted himself a long, appreciative look at Sherlock’s body sprawled across his knees. The detective’s round cheeks and upper thighs sported a rosy glow and were already decorated with several dark pink oval splotches where the hairbrush had really smacked down hard through his trousers. Sherlock clenched and unclenched his bottom nervously, pressing an obvious erection into John’s thigh.

It made John’s own cock stir with interest, and he had to quell his instinct to rub and knead at Sherlock’s warm, punished flesh. _No. Calm down now, Captain._ This was a real punishment, after all, not play, and Sherlock seemed to have accepted that at last. _No need to confuse him._ John wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s body, holding him tightly against his own, deciding it was better to nip in the bud any excessive squirming and flailing. He lay the cool back of the hairbrush against Sherlock’s pink bottom, causing Sherlock to give a little twitch of surprise.

“Sherlock,” John began, his voice clipped and serious. “We’ve discussed your rudeness several times before. I understand your natural inclination to deduce, but that doesn’t mean you have to say everything that pops into your bloody brilliant mind.”

John knew the praise would not be lost on the detective. He didn’t want Sherlock to think he was being punished for his natural talent or for being himself. The detective simply needed to learn when to bite his tongue. Sherlock often just didn’t realize when he was hurting other people’s feelings, and John knew that, deep down, it wasn’t his intention to bully his friends.

He paused a moment to let the message sink in, allowing Sherlock the time to fully consider his current predicament – bare bottomed across John’s knee with his trousers and pants bunched around his ankles. Maybe, in the future, his genius mind would equate rudeness with humiliation and a very sore bottom. As expected, the silence while in such an embarrassing position soon got to Sherlock, and he squirmed and sighed impatiently. _So eager for his spanking, it seems._ John almost chuckled. _Perhaps he’ll change his tune once we start._

Regardless, John took it as a sign to continue his pre-spanking lecture, “I think you know very well when you’re being rude, Sherlock, and I want you to think twice before blurting out completely unnecessary and unkind things – especially to people as sweet and accommodating as Molly.” John gave Sherlock’s body a squeeze and raised the hairbrush into the air. He then spoke slowly, bringing the hard back of the hairbrush down sharply against Sherlock’s bottom to emphasize each word, “That. Is. Why. You. Are. Being. Spanked!”

The brush made a loud CRACK with each strike to the bare flesh which was decidedly different and far louder than the muffled sound it had made against Sherlock’s trousers. The detective’s rounded buttocks flattened and jiggled with each smack of the makeshift paddle.

John kept up a slow and varied pace, allowing the sting from each spank to really set in and keeping Sherlock guessing as to exactly when the next would land. He raised the brush high and brought it down hard. Usually, John gave the detective a lengthy warm-up spanking before using such harsh punishment spanks, but, quite frankly, he didn’t think Sherlock had earned that privilege after his behavior. A little extra sting might do wonders for his attitude, after all.

Sherlock made near silent little gasps at every strike which John took as a sign that the message was sinking in. After several minutes of unhurried spanking, Sherlock began to writhe uncomfortably, and John paused for a bit more lecturing, hoping that the detective’s smarting bottom would assure full attention to his words.

“Sherlock,” he began in a stern voice, “In the future, I want you to think about how much your bottom stings right now before you just blurt out something rude to our friends. From now on, you’re going to _think_ before you speak. Do you understand, Sherlock?”

Sherlock groaned quietly, clearly embarrassed at being chastised like a child.

“Sherlock?” John pressed. “I asked you a question. Do you understand?”

The detective gave an irritable little huff and stamped a foot against the ground in a show of stubborn bad temper.

“Oy, now!” John shook his head and frowned. _So it’s going to be like that, is it?_ “Well, I suppose you’re just not sore and sorry enough yet, young man.”

John steeled himself, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s body. It was time to really drive the lesson home. He raised the hairbrush again and proceeded to light a fire in Sherlock’s bottom. Unlike before, he paddled the detective’s bare bum at a rapid speed, covering the entire surface with quick, sharp smacks.

The burn obviously built quickly, as Sherlock soon began to squirm and kick his legs, gasping out desperate cries of _ow, ow, OW!_ But John was relentless. If setting the detective’s bottom on fire was what it took to get through to him, then so be it. 

John kept up the harsh, merciless pace despite the alarming shade of red Sherlock’s bum was turning. He merely shifted his aim, delivering the smacks lower to include the backs of Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock bucked and cried out, “Oh! Ohhhh! John, please! Ahhhh! Ouch! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

_That’s more like it._ John was finally getting through, but he didn’t let up just yet. "And you know what," John said, "Tomorrow, you're going to go apologize to Molly, sore bottom and all."

Sherlock groaned miserably. When the spanking did not slow in speed or lower in intensity, Sherlock’s reactions ratcheted up to frantic, yelping and squirming without shame. He twisted and shook his hips in a desperate, but futile attempt to escape the onslaught.

Sherlock really seemed to be suffering, and John figured that he wasn’t using his safeword, because a part of the detective knew he deserved every swat. He decided it was time to pull out all the stops.

“I was very disappointed in you today, Sherlock,” John said over the echoing cracks of the brush. The detective almost immediately stopped moving, going slack and letting out a stuttering whimper.

John continued, “I know you know better, and I know you can do better.”

Sherlock gave a long, pitiful wail that fractured into broken sobs. John’s heart twisted in alarm, and he stopped spanking at once. Sherlock Holmes _never_ cried. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice that the spanking had stopped, but continued to blubber amidst his quiet ramblings of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry!_

At this point, John was concerned. Guilt roiled in his belly along with a nagging worry in the back of his mind that he had been too hard on Sherlock. Examining the detective’s punished backside, it was clear that it was going to bruise up and be quite sore for at least a couple days. He tossed the hairbrush aside, signaling that the punishment was over and gently rubbed the detective’s back, shushing him until Sherlock quieted to soft sniffles.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock finally said, in a low, quiet voice.

“Shhhh, I know, I know,” John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s now damp curls, massaging his scalp gently. “Are you all right? You want to get up?”

Sherlock nodded, and John helped him slowly slide off his lap. The detective’s face was red and tearstained, and he sank on the floor, not making eye contact with John and looking a bit lost and dejected. He had kicked his trousers and pants off during the spanking, but he made no move to fetch them, seemingly unfazed by still being bare from the waist down. His former erection had very clearly flagged.

John slid down off the sofa and knelt in front of Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around his flatmate, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head in his hand and pulling him into a tight hug. Sherlock buried his face into John’s shoulder and sniffled.

“Er, Sherlock,” John began, worry in his voice, “Tell me – was I too hard on you? Was that too much? You should have used your safeword if – ”

Sherlock shook his head adamantly and pulled back from John’s embrace, gazing at the doctor in surprise.

“God, you actually think I’m upset with _you_ ,” Sherlock’s eyes welled with tears, and he quickly covered his face with his hands and sobbed, “Bloody idiot.”

“Sherlock – ” John gaped at him, unsure what to say.

“N-not you. Me! I’m a bloody idiot, and I don’t deserve you, John. I clearly don’t deserve any friends at all. I’m just miserable with people, and I’m sorry for being so hopeless.”

“Hush, now. Enough of that,” John murmured, understanding dawning. Sherlock was disappointed with _himself._ It was a rare moment indeed when Sherlock gave into emotion ( _sentiment_ he called it, always with quite a bit of distaste), and John would cherish this moment if he weren’t so overcome himself.

“Sherlock – ” he begin, feeling his own throat tighten.

“No, listen. I’ve been trying. Really I have. I just get so _stupid_ sometimes – ”

John abruptly cut him off. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are never stupid.” He rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, giving him a loving squeeze. “A bit insensitive sometimes, yes, but never stupid.” John put a finger beneath Sherlock’s chin and tipped his head up, looking him directly in the eye. “And sometimes you’re just a naughty little boy who needs a good, hard spanking, aren’t you?”

John grinned, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but also gave a small smile that sent relief flooding through John’s chest. He cupped Sherlock’s face and gently kissed the wet tears away from his cheeks until the detective parted his own lips in an obvious demand to be kissed on the mouth. John gladly obliged.

“I love you so much,” John breathed after several moments of heavy snogging, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s.

The corners of the detective’s mouth twitched happily. He sighed and bit his bottom lip, brows furrowing, “Even when I disappoint you?”

“Of course,” John chuckled.

Sherlock shimmied forward, closing the distance between them, and pressing himself against John. He tucked his head into John’s neck. “I love you, too,” he said, the words muffled.

John felt the detective’s renewed erection against his middle and smiled. “Bet that bottom of yours is pretty sore. Let’s get you up to the bedroom and see if I can make you feel better, yeah?”


	4. Chapter 4

With John’s suggestive words, Sherlock’s mood began to turn around. His guilt was dissipating quickly, and the hot throb of his bottom was shooting jolts of pleasure straight to his cock. Without bothering to replace his slacks and pants, he allowed John to take his hand and followed eagerly as he was lead towards his own bedroom. As they were just about to pass the bathroom door, John paused, licking his lips and very clearly weighing something in his mind.

Sherlock squeezed his hand and studied John with narrowed his eyes, curious.

“C’mere,” John tugged Sherlock into the bathroom and turned on the light. “Let’s look at your arse.”

 _Well, this was new._

“W-what?” Sherlock’s voice came out hoarse. It was a rare occasion on which the detective was truly surprised. “Why?”

John shrugged, trying and failing to look nonchalant. “Dunno. Just kind of want you to see how well I wore out your arse.” He cleared his throat. “Make sure you fully appreciate what happens to naughty boys.” John gave Sherlock a light, playful smack to his bum, and the detective yelped and scurried a few paces away.

Of course, Sherlock often snuck off to take a peek at his freshly spanked bottom after they played, but always in private. He could feel a warm blush creeping up his neck at the thought of John participating in what he considered a deliciously improper and lust-fueled act. Sherlock was suddenly very aware of being bare from the waist down with an erection and what was surely a very red bum on display. He gave a futile tug at his too short button-up.

John maneuvered Sherlock by the shoulders, pointing his backside towards the large mirror above the sink. He pulled Sherlock into an embrace against his left shoulder, placing his knee between Sherlock’s legs and pressing his own obvious erection into the detective’s thigh. In this position he was easily able to see the mirror beyond Sherlock’s narrow frame. He gently but firmly took a fistful of Sherlock’s long hair and forced him to turn his head to look at their reflection.

“Look, Sherlock,” John said, his voice turned husky with lust.

Sherlock squirmed against him, shame compelling him to resist. “Please, John. It’s too humiliating.”

“Come on,” John urged, tugging again at Sherlock’s hair. “Look at yourself.”

Sherlock peeked over his shoulder and gasped when he saw his reflection. His bottom was _red_. Crimson red from the top of the round cheeks down to his upper thighs. The skin had a mottled look, with overlapping blotches from the back of the hairbrush. A few small bruises had already started to form where the skin was thinner and more sensitive.

He tentatively ran his fingers over the flesh and found it warm and leathery. He caught sight of John watching him in the mirror, mouth slightly agape and eyes heavily lidded. Sherlock bit his lip and turned his attention back to his own reflection. His eyes were shiny, face ruddy and tear-stained, lips pouty and swollen after being kissed so fiercely. He looked utterly debauched. Naughty and punished and pliant and so very aroused. A decadent fruit ripe for picking. His breath quickened as he realized he was making all these filthy deductions about _himself._

“God, just look at you,” John murmured into his ear, snapping Sherlock out of his head and back into the moment and into John’s warm embrace. John unnecessarily lifted the back of Sherock’s shirt. His bottom was already fully displayed, but it somehow increased the feeling of exposure tenfold. John let out an appreciative whistle. “Just look at that. Were you a bad boy, Sherlock?”

Sherlock groaned and melted into John, grinding his prick against the shorter man’s stomach. Seeking friction to ease the ache and surely leaving a trail of sticky precum on John’s shirt. _I’ll wash the damn jumper for him._ He stooped and laid his head on John’s shoulder, pressing little kisses against his neck that John eagerly returned.

John began to run his hands, gently at first, over Sherlock’s punished backside. The touches soon roughened, and he kneaded and pinched at the abused flesh, eliciting little yelps and whimpers from the detective who squirmed in John’s arms. John growled and held Sherlock tightly, sucking and biting at his neck, eyes constantly flicking towards the mirror to take admiring glances at Sherlock’s well-spanked behind as he rubbed at it.

“What a naughty boy you must have been,” John whispered. Sultry, teasing. His tongue darted out and swiped across Sherlock’s earlobe making the detective shudder. “Looks like somebody needed to take you across his knee and paddle your bare bottom.”

Sherlock moaned and John snaked a hand between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around the detective’s prick. The touch was a jolt of electricity – the contact he had been so eagerly waiting for. He could hardly believe the obscene and embarrassing sounds coming from his own mouth as John began to slowly stroke him.

In a very brief moment of clarity and consideration, Sherlock tugged at John’s belt.

“You, too,” he begged, breathy.

John helped him to unfasten the offending belt and open his trousers. Sherlock’s greedy fingers fumbled with John’s pants, desperately seeking the doctor’s cock, until John batted his hands away, releasing himself and pressing his erection against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock widened his stance to accommodate for the height difference and John wrapped his hand around both their cocks, squeezing them together. He swiped his thumb over the tips, using the wetness to slick the friction and began to jerk them off together.

Sherlock sank into John, letting his head loll on the doctor’s shoulder, panting. He clutched the fabric of John’s jumper in his fists and thrust his hips, matching the rhythm with enthusiasm.

It didn’t take long. John wasted no time with slow, teasing strokes, but moved his fist faster and faster. Sherlock’s knees quaked. Pleasure coursed through his body, clawing up his spine and clouding his mind with nothing but _John, John, John!_ until the sensations overwhelmed and he came hard, release washing through him as he spilled hot liquid over John’s hand and both their cocks.

John followed soon after. Sherlock’s mouth remained open in a silent gasp and his chest rose and fell quickly as he descended from orgasmic bliss.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence. “Mmmm, well, that certainly made your destruction of my arse worth it.” He smirked. “But I’m not going to learn anything with you sending such a mixed message, am I, John?”

“Bugger,” John was still catching his breath. He sighed deeply. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away. I suppose I just can’t control myself around your damn sexy arse.”

Sherlock smiled, pleased by the praise. He twisted his body around to reach for a towel and assisted John in cleaning themselves up.

“Maybe – ” John began, “Maybe I won’t try to pull disciplinarian on you again. I think maybe we both get off on it a bit too much for it to do any good.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock said with a faraway look in his eyes. “I quite liked the ‘no-nonsense, I mean business, super serious’ John Watson. It gave me shivers.”

John groaned. “That’s exactly what I mean! You weren’t supposed to _like_ it, Sherlock. That was the point!”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. It hurt terribly. You really worked me over, Captain Watson,” Sherlock winked. “It was intense to the point of being overwhelming, but …” he glazed over with that same faraway look again. 

“Why didn’t you use your safeword, then?” John couldn’t resist asking.

“Oh, well that’s obvious. I trust you – with every fiber of my being. You’re very in tune with my limits, John.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Maybe you’re right. It might just be too erotic. I was angry at first, but still aroused. It would never be a true deterrent. However,” he thought for a moment. “I _do_ feel a lot better now. And not just because of the – er – this part, but just a lot calmer and less upset with myself. So maybe it worked as … something.”

“Kind of like therapy, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, rubbing his back as they both contemplated things for a few moments.

“Christ,” John said, looking into the mirror again, “Just look at your poor bum. I can’t help but feel like a bit of a brute.”

“No, don’t be silly. I really did deserve it, John. And it wasn’t more than I could take. Promise.”

“All right, then. Also, I _do_ want you to go apologize to Molly tomorrow.”

“I know, and I will.” He didn’t really want to, but Sherlock knew it was important to John, and he supposed it was the right thing to do. Maybe it would even serve to further assuage his guilt.

“Now, if I remember correctly, you were trying to have pudding before I was forced to interrupt to turn you over my knee.” John spoke in a soft, affectionate tone. Sherlock smiled shyly and nodded, eating up the attention. “Let’s get you in some nice, soft pajama bottoms and I’ll fix you a new snack.”


End file.
